


these streets will make you feel brand new

by cherotonin



Series: this universe gave me a gift (of course, that gift was you) [3]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Financial Issues, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Spider-Man Loves New York, and new york loves spider-man!, everything in this is so disjointed and it's because I Write Whatever I Want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:20:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23340844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherotonin/pseuds/cherotonin
Summary: “Listen, Pete, I need you to just think about what you’re refusing here. $25,000 is a lot of money.”Pulling his mask back on, Peter steps back. “I didn’t need to go to the hospital in the first place, and I don’t need to accept your money, either, Tony, as much as I appreciate the offer. I’ll deal with this on my own.”After a well-intending citizen delivers a critically injured Spider-Man to the emergency room, Peter Parker finds himself neck-deep in hospital bills, on top of the whole full-time student/boyfriend/nephew, part-time Stark Industries research intern/freelance photographer/masked vigilante thing. It's really throwing a wrench into things, especially since everyone keeps insisting that they help pay for it. Seriously, it's fine. Peter will figure it out somehow. He'll manage, like always does.Or, when Spider-Man falls, New York helps him back up. After all, what's a superhero without the friendly neighborhood at his back?
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Series: this universe gave me a gift (of course, that gift was you) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1539475
Comments: 6
Kudos: 160





	these streets will make you feel brand new

**Author's Note:**

> originally written for the prompt "new york", now a standalone piece! yay!
> 
> really wanted to try exploring some oft-neglected parts of the Spider-Man Experience™, namely spidey's relationships with nyc and money, respectively. writing as a lower-middle-class person who spent most of their childhood in manhattan, a lot of the issues that Peter deals with in this fic are very near and dear to my own heart, and i hope that i was able to deliver them justice!
> 
> this was supposed to be 4.5k, then 7k, and now it's Not Either Of Those and i am posting at 3:30am. life is full of surprises! shoutout to my gf for being the coolest ever (as always) and tolerating me yelling about this for about a week
> 
> title from Empire State of Mind by Jay-Z and Alicia Keys! because how could I not.

“No,” Peter says flatly. “I refuse.”

Tony makes a sound like a dying animal and runs one hand desperately through his hair. It would have been funny if they both weren’t already so frustrated. “Listen, Pete. I need you to just think about what you’re refusing here. This isn’t an act of charity, or me looking down on you, or whatever else you‘ve deluded yourself into believing. This is me not wanting you to be neck deep in debt by the end of the month. $25,000 is a lot of money.”

Peter crosses his arms. “I know, and I’ll make it somehow.”

“Right, right, you, the college student vigilante, and your buddy at the Bugle will scrape it together,” Tony says, and it’s clear from the edge in his voice that he’s ready for this conversation to come to an end.

Fine. Have it his way, then. Pulling his mask back on, Peter steps back. “I didn’t need to go to the hospital in the first place, and I don’t need to accept your money, either, Tony, as much as I appreciate the offer. I’ll deal with this on my own.”

Tony stares at him for a little longer, then throws his hands up, scoffing. “Fine! What the hell! You’re at the mercy of the American healthcare system now! God, that’s what I get for trying to look after any of my interns. Have fun feeding yourself this month, Parker, ‘cause it’s not going to be easy.”

He turns around, shoulders squared, and makes like he’s going to storm off angrily, but Peter doesn’t miss the final, worried glance that Tony shoots his way over his shoulder when he thinks Peter isn’t looking. It makes him feel seventeen and lonely again, and very, very small.

“Tony,” Peter calls.

The older man turns instantly, face turned up in expectance and hope, as though maybe Peter’s changed his mind.

“Thank you,” he says, and tries to make his voice say the words as sincerely as he feels them. “For…for everything. But I think this one really is on me.”

He watches the steel of Tony’s eyes soften and fade, transforming from anger into something exasperated and familiar as he sighs for the millionth time this hour.

“Look, Pete, just…do your best to take care of yourself, okay? I know you feel like you’re on your own most of the time, and you’re a real self-sufficient guy, but…if it comes to it, my offer still stands.” He waves a hand flippantly. “I’ll just write it off as a holiday bonus, or something. For my favorite intern.”

Peter makes a face under the mask. “Ew, gross.”

Tony looks at him blankly for a second before launching into a startled laugh. “Oh, God, kid, don’t even joke about that. Ugh, serves me right for trying to get anything through that thick skull of yours. Whatever, go back to scrambling for photos or picking up stray kittens or whatever it is you’re doing at this time of night.”

Peter does a mock salute and says, “See you around, Mr. Stark.” He slides one of the enormous glass windows open and sticks his head out, savoring the cool evening breeze as he prepares to leap from the top of the Stark Tower.

“I can’t believe you still call me that, it’s been four years, for Christ’s sake,” Tony mutters behind him. He mumbles for a few more seconds, completely unintelligible to even Peter, then groans deeply and begins to massage his temples. “Listen, if you’re not gonna let me lend a hand on this one, then could you at least listen to Wilson when he offers?”

Peter, fully outside the building now, raises one hand in an “OK” sign through the glass, then waves at his mentor and old friend before swan diving off the building.

\--

Wade is waiting for him on the couch when he comes home – he looks like he’s in the middle of rewatching _Coraline_ , but the moment that Peter taps on the window, he’s on his feet immediately, releasing the window latch and graciously catching the ball of cold spider limbs that leaps from the fire escape into his arms.

“Everything go well with Stark?” he asks, carrying the Peter-bundle over to the couch and setting them both down with a grace that would be surprising if it weren’t so familiar.

Peter peels off the mask and tosses it onto a side table, already making grabby hands at the bag of still-warm takeout that Wade is dangling at him. “Yeah, unsurprisingly, he offered to pay for everything, I said no, we argued a bunch, and then I left.”

Wade makes a sympathetic noise but keeps the bag at arm’s length even as Peter whines and leans forward, smushing his face into his boyfriend’s chest as he attempts to snatch whatever goodness is inside. It’s two in the morning, he’s spent the last hour dealing with (he uses the term fondly) Tony Stark, and he hasn’t eaten since lunch; he deserves this much at _least_ , thank you very much.

“You know how far I went for these? I’m not lettin’ you spew half of this _artistry_ out of your mouth while you talk. Finish telling me first, and _then_ you get burritos.”

Peter makes a sound like a kicked puppy, then tries to make a face like one, too. Wade doesn’t budge, but Peter’s sure that he’s made fractures in the foundation, at least. Fine. Two can play that game.

He scoots petulantly away from Wade, towards the other arm of the couch, and turns up his nose. “Actually, he asked me to listen to whatever offer you were going to make me, too.” Unconsciously, he spins back towards Wade, face open like a sunflower towards the sun. “See, I told you he’d warm up to you eventually!”

“Yeah, now he’s finally acknowledging that we live together and I have blood money,” Wade says dryly. “Just the type of acceptance I’ve always craved from your bajillionaire pseudo-dad.”

“Please don’t call him that,” Peter replies automatically, face scrunching up. “I just don’t want anyone else to have to drop money on something that’s my problem, I guess? Like, I know Mr. Stark means well—no matter what you say, I know he always does—and it’s not like it would be a lot of money for him, but it’s the principle of the thing, you know? Another one of the fun benefits of growing up poor.”

It’s quiet for a minute, save for the sounds of Coraline exploring the fucked-up Other Mother’s world in the background.

“I could pay for it instead,” Wade says finally. He raises a hand (the one not holding the burrito bag) to stop Peter before he can begin protesting. “Yeah, I know, I know, that’s literally - and I mean literally, like how that word is actually supposed to be used, get off my ass, White – what you were just talking about with Stark, but. ‘S different if I foot the bill.”

The implication hangs heavy in the air: _I should have been there to take care of you so this would never have happened in the first place._

Peter reads through the lines easily and scoots closer, taking Wade’s hands in his own. “Listen, we talked about this. It’s not your fault you were off-country at the time. You were busy saving people too! And I can handle myself, I’m a big boy—" he sees Wade roll his eyes at that, but the other man remains respectfully silent— "and there was no way we could have anticipated that they had so many people lying in wait.”

He sighs. “Though I still wish someone could have just taken me home, or brought me to Bruce or something…it wasn’t anything really crazy this time, just normal old injuries. My healing factor is good enough to deal with that by itself.”

Wade tilts his head and makes a face like he’s bitten into a lemon. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m, like, totes in agreement with you here, and I get that your whole thing about hospitals is playing into this too, but…you were passed out from blood loss with two gunshot wounds and a handful of broken bones, baby boy. It would have been a crime to just send you home without anyone to take care of you.”

“Maybe it would have been a crime, but at least I wouldn’t be $25,000 in debt,” Peter shoots back, positively vitriolic, and then stops himself immediately, looking horrified. “Oh, god, Wade, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to take this all out on you, I’m just –”

“—stressed and unable to afford the fuckin’ ridiculous demands of U.S. medical services, ‘s alright, I got your number, baby.” Wade pulls him closer so they’re sitting face-to-face again, and then reaches out to touch Peter’s face, tilting his head up with a gentle hand. “I was serious, though. Let me handle this one.”

Peter’s brow furrows together instantly. “I couldn’t ask you to—”

“Shh,” Wade commands, moving his hand to press a finger over his partner’s mouth in the universal sign for _shut the fuck up_. “Remember who has the burritos right now. Let me just talk for a minute, and then we can discuss, ‘k?”

Peter doesn’t look happy, but he obliges, miming the action of zipping his mouth shut. After a second, though he snatches a burrito from the bag and starts eating, which Wade supposes is only fair. Even though –

“Shit, I forgot to unzip my mouth,” Peter says through a mouthful of dinner, promptly spraying the surrounding splash zone with micro pork-and-bean fragments. “You were right, though, this is the good artisanal shit.”

Oh, the things one must endure for love.

Wade waits patiently while he puts down the burrito and mimes retrieving an invisible key, unzipping his mouth, and tucking the key back into a pocket of his suit for safekeeping. Peter gives him the thumbs up to go ahead, and Wade gives a thumbs up back.

“Anyways, what I was saying before—it’s no big deal for me to handle it either, Petey-pie, and even if it was I’d pay it in a second ‘cause you’re worth that to me. But, like, listen, this is just…this is just one of the ways that I can take care of you, okay?”

Tilting his head inquisitively, Peter gestures for Wade to go on. He’s reaching for a second burrito. Wade passes him the whole bag before continuing.

“Like, you know how you’re really good at cleaning, but I like to do cooking most of the time, and you make sure that we don’t run out of toilet paper and clean clothes and shit?” he tries. “And I know what you’re good at and what you can do, and I wouldn’t ask you to do pest control, like you wouldn’t ask me to talk to the landlord? ‘Cause they’re different skills and things we bring to the table, but they both help us take care of each other?”

Peter nods slowly. Sometimes, he also has the emotional processing speed of a spider.

“It’s—it’s like that. Baby boy, there’s nothing I’d rather put all my money to use for than taking care of you, and I swear that’s all it is. ‘S not pity, or guilt, or whatever weird sugar daddy business people think is going on between you and the Tin Man. It’s just me using the resources I happen to have to make this easier for you. ‘Kay?”

A beat passes while Peter thinks. From the look on his face, Wade can tell that he’s seriously considering the offer, and for a moment he believes that his beautiful, stubborn boyfriend might have actually agreed to the solution that makes things easiest for him.

Then, he shakes his head, biting his lip as he looks at Wade. “I—I thought about it, babe, I really tried to, but no matter how much I think it still feels…dirty to me. Using someone else’s money to fix my own problem.” Something about him shrinks as he talks. He looks uncharacteristically fragile in the washed-out moonlight.

“I know that you really do want to help me, and that’s not the problem, it’s just…” Dropping his third burrito down onto the side table, Peter presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and curls in on himself, slumping forward. “A weird complex I have, I don’t know. It still feels like charity, or like I’m being dishonest, or something. Factually, I know it’s stupid, but I can’t get past the fact that it’s yours and I’m taking it from you. Like, you should be spending that money for something else, not…paying off your screwup boyfriend’s hospital bills.”

Squinting one eye open, he raises a finger, lightning-fast, and presses it to Wade’s already partially open mouth, repeating that _eat my shorts, I’m talking right now_ gesture from before. “Hey, you had your turn to talk, it’s mine now. I—I know I shouldn’t be calling myself a screwup right now, ugh, there’s just—a lot on my plate and it’s kind of by habit, even though I’m trying to work away from it.” Silently, Wade plants a kiss on the finger before Peter withdraws it, but obediently remains still, waiting.

“And then there’s—” Wade winces, anticipating what’s coming next. “—yeah, sorry, I know it’s a sensitive spot for you too, but most of that money didn’t exactly come from a good place, y’know? I didn’t say this to Mr. Stark, even though it’s true for a lot of his wealth too, but it…just feels even wronger to use funds that came from other people’s suffering for any kind of personal purpose. And I know, better than anyone, that you’re doing good now, even if you didn’t before, but…” Peter sighs, letting his eyes open momentarily before they’re shuttering closed again. “That money still doesn’t sit well with me, I’m sorry.”

His vision swims slightly behind the blackness of his eyelids, shades of muted red and green swirling around until he forces his eyes open again. “That was kind of a lot to dump on you tonight. I appreciate you trying to take care of me, and for listening and being honest, but I just don’t think I can take the money.”

Wade presses his lips together but doesn’t press further, sensing the finality of Peter’s statement. After a moment, he exhales and says, “Alright, if that’s what ya want, Petey-pie. I respect your anatomy, so I won’t say anything else.”

“My anatomy,” Peter says dryly, but his whole body is already relaxing, face involuntarily curling into a smile.

“Autonomy, whatever. I _do_ respect that, too,” Wade replies, elbowing him slightly, and just like that, the tension breaks as Peter giggles and teeters over into Wade’s arms, kicking his legs up and resting them over his partner’s lap.

“You do,” he agrees. “And I appreciate that!”

Wade slides his face closer to Peter’s so they’re cheek-to-cheek. “Know what I’d appreciate?” he whispers, breath so close and warm on Peter’s skin that it makes him squirm. “Going to bed right fucking now, because you have to be up for class in five hours and if you’re tired tomorrow night on patrol I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“I don’t complain that much!” Peter protests, but eventually concedes the point after Wade ticks off the number of times he went off just this evening. “Fine, whatever, take me to bed then.” Holding his arms out expectantly, he waits.

Wade rolls his eyes but indulges him anyway, wrapping Peter up in his arms and letting some of that spider-clinginess do the work on his bottom half as he treks to their bedroom.

The conversation is over for now, but the issue is far from resolved, and Wade has a feeling that this is one he won’t be able to settle on his own. Time to call in reinforcements, then. While Peter gets ready for bed, puttering around the apartment to make sure the appliances are unplugged or whatever other nerd stuff he does, Wade pulls out his phone and shoots a text to one of his starred contacts: _whats tootin auntie bae, you up for tea later today?_

It’s late, so he doesn’t expect a reply back anytime soon, but his phone buzzes a couple minutes later, after he and Peter are both curled up under the covers. Unlocking the device, he sees a reply from _✨_ _😍_ _WORLD’S COOLEST AUNT MAYMAY!!!!!_ _🔥💯_ : _You know I am._

Grinning, he sets his phone back on the nightstand and turns back to Peter, ready to drift off for the night. He’s surprised to hear another buzz from the nightstand, then another, and opens the notification to see two new messages:

✨😍 WORLD’S COOLEST AUNT MAYMAY!!!!! 🔥💯 (1): _I’d appreciate if you texted a little later in the day next time, though._

✨😍 WORLD’S COOLEST AUNT MAYMAY!!!!! 🔥💯 (2): _Goodnight, Wade._

Another buzz.

✨😍 WORLD’S COOLEST AUNT MAYMAY!!!!! 🔥💯 (3): _I hope you’re not keeping Peter up too late._

Wade has to cackle at that, because how could he _not_? He wants to tell May as much, but Peter makes a feeble noise of protest from beneath the covers and wiggles grabby hands in his direction, so he settles for a quick _i don’t know what you’re implying, miss may!!!!_ followed by a _seeya later_ _😘_ and then shuts his phone off.

“Who’re you t’xtng,” Peter slurs sleepily. Wade pats him on the head and pulls the comforter slightly away from his boyfriend. Damn blanket hog.

“Aunt May wanted to make sure I wasn’t keeping you up too late,” he says, waggling his eyebrows even in the darkness. It’s technically the truth, though Peter doesn’t have to know that they’re plotting something else together.

Peter makes a disgusted sound from inside the blanket mass. “Gross.”

“She said it, not me,” Wade sing-songs in reply, and then scoots closer, pressing his chest up close to his boyfriend’s back. “’Night, Pete.”

A soft, muffled warble emits from Peter in front of him, and Wade smiles against his neck and falls into a deep, content sleep.

\--

It’s hard, after that. Peter, for better or for worse, is absolutely a man of his word, and his word, once given, does not budge. He’s resolute in his decision, but even as the week stretches on, he can feel the sheer stress of the situation closing in on him.

Between tuition and textbooks, he’s already sunk his bank account dangerously low, even with the help of financial aid. By their own agreement, Wade already has groceries and 75% of the rent covered, but even with whatever he can scrape together by freelancing at the Bugle and reselling old textbooks, he knows he’d be lucky to pull together an extra thousand by the end of the month. Being thrifty, as Aunt May would call it, is nothing new to Peter; attempting to conjure $25,000 out of thin air, on the other hand, is a trick he has yet to pull off.

Word gets around. It makes sense. Spider-Man is, after all, a public figure, and one of New York’s favorite local celebrities, for newspaper headlines and tabloid spreads alike. So the whole “ending up in the hospital thing” doesn’t go unnoted as he’d hoped; instead, it’s only highlighted in the public eye by the fact that no one has seen Spider-Man openly seek out medical attention in years, if at all. Add that to the whole secret identity shebang, and the “Masked Menace’s Mysterious ER Trip!” is the talk of the town for a couple of days, much to his regret.

The immediate downside of this: everyone knows, and everyone tries to help.

Tony bumps up his salary even though he’s still only technically an intern and pretends he doesn’t know what Peter is talking about when confronted. Johnny stops by the apartment one afternoon when Wade is out, because of course he’s heard too, and only half-jokingly offers to auction off some of his old suits and Human Torch memorabilia. Aunt May calls him and tells him, seriously, that she’ll pull from what little she’s managed to save for her retirement to help him pay it off, brushing off every one of his objections like she can’t hear them at all. MJ treats him a little bit like she did after Gwen’s death, treading carefully in their daily text conversations and working her hardest to take his mind off things.

He appreciates all of it, he really does. It’s times like this, when the going gets tough, that Peter is reminded forcefully of just how lucky he is, to have so many people who care about him. Who would go this far to make sure that he’s safe, and warm, and well-fed, and preferably not being eaten alive by loan sharks. Bantering with Tony in the labs, laughing as Johnny fails jumps in Breath of the Wild, gratefully accepting the armful of homemade desserts that May forces into his fridge (“You may be a superhero, but you’re still a growing boy,” she says, fondly, and then wedges another loaf of banana bread into the fridge door), texting MJ increasingly obscure loss.jpeg memes—along with Wade, who is, as always, a comforting, grounding presence in his life, these are the moments that keep him afloat.

But it takes a toll on him, too, just like the actual debt does, because Peter hates being treated like this. In between the jokes and the light-hearted conversation, he sees the furtive glances, the bitten lips, the stilted pauses after he insists that he’s fine. (He is. And even if he wasn’t, he would be, eventually.)

He hates it when people walk on eggshells around him, hates it when he’s seen as fragile and in need of support. It verges too close to pity for his tastes. This feels like every time he heard “I’m sorry” after Uncle Ben’s death, like every “Oh, that must be hard” after he explains his financial situation.

No matter how good the intention, it’s just. It gets patronizing, after a while, and Peter hates it.

He managed fine on his own for a long time, and he can still manage now, even with this many people looking out for him. Of course, _of course_ , everyone is doing this precisely _because_ they care about him—he’s frustrated, not foolish—but it wears him down all the same.

Everything comes to a head about a week after he talks to Tony, when Peter comes home feeling absolutely drained from another joyless encounter with the one and only J. Jonah Jameson.

Wade had helped him take today’s photos, and he felt pretty damn good when he came in to submit them to the Bugle. They’re tastefully composed, showing off the iconic webbed pattern of the suit against the glowing backdrop of the city lights. It’s the kind of material he’d put in a portfolio, if he had one, and also if he wasn’t so embarrassed that the photos are really just sophisticated selfies.

Still. His point stands. They’re really nice photos, and Peter was hoping to catch a good price for them, but evidently Jameson’s week has been even worse than Peter’s, because he immediately throws them to the floor and dismisses them as “useless glamor shots, Parker, where the hell is the action I asked you for?!?”

Wade’s waiting for him at home, unmasked but still in full Deadpool regalia, and notices that something is off the moment that Peter storms into the living room and collapses onto the couch with a huff.

“Long day?” he asks sympathetically. He’s weirdly tense against Peter’s side, which is. Not good news. Add that to the tally.

“Jameson,” Peter replies shortly, wiggling his backpack off and tossing it onto the floor somewhere by the table. He sinks into the worn material of the couch—it’s held up for a strong couple of months in an apartment shared by two vigilante superheroes; seriously, this thing has seen some shit—and presses his head into the side of Wade’s chest, shutting his eyes and exhaling harshly. “Didn’t like those photos as much as I did.”

Wade sags a little and maneuvers himself so that he’s facing Peter more, letting the smaller man curl up against his side. “Aw, but you looked so sexy in those, baby boy,” he says. His voice is teasing, but there’s a characteristic edge of Deadpool steel to it.

“Go ahead and try and convince him of that,” Peter says bitterly. He pauses, remembering that “go ahead” is not a figure of speech to Wade, who actually would try, perhaps lethally. “ _Without_ hurting him. We’ve had this conversation.”

He opens his eyes and blinks a couple of times. “Please tell me you have good news of some kind, because I got nothing today.”

The tension returns to Wade’s form even as he projects his voice into a boisterous shout. “Well, actually, Petey, I do!”

He stands and assumes a rigid version of a hero pose, the kind of standing position he used to make fun of Peter for enjoying when they first met. (In his defense, he was fresh out of high school and still kind of riding the high of, uh, _being a freaking superhero_ , so sue him.) The position reveals that Wade actually has Peter’s laptop in hand, already open to some webpage, and he gestures at it dramatically.

“So, last week after you talked to Stark, your Aunt Maymay and I got together for tea—”

“I still can’t believe you’re doing that every week without me,” Peter says. Then, after Wade’s words sink in, he rockets forward, eyes narrowed, looking so fearsome that Wade involuntarily shrinks backwards, falling out of that silly pose. “Wade. You didn’t involve her in this, did you?”

“Well, I—” he starts, but the damage is already done. Peter raises himself up off the couch, exhaustion bleeding through every movement, and stands at his full height to look his partner in the eyes.

“I told you, I have it under control,” Peter says, and his voice carries through the room like a storm brewing, quiet but rumbling with an undercurrent of something dangerous and electric. “The whole point was to keep Aunt May from worrying, because she can’t _afford_ to pay for _my_ fuck-up from her own _retirement money_ , Wade, I know you’re both concerned about me but I can do it my _goddamn self_ —”

He’s not angry at Wade, not really, but he’s tired and stretched outrageously thin and today has just been terrible by any metric. His body is thrumming with pent-up energy, and he _wants_ a confrontation, to throw a messy punch or two and receive a couple in return.

Breathing quickening, he has half a mind to keep plowing on, temper boiling red-hot into something about to spill over (he had _one job_ , and it was to keep May safe, and happy, and not sending herself to an early grave for his sake, not when she was all he had left for so long), and then he feels a warm, scarred hand on his face.

Wade’s looking at him, not angry, not judging, not even smiling, just looking, and seeing, and he can feel that gaze cutting swiftly through the whirlwind in his chest.

“We know,” he says softly. His thumb traces the fullness of Peter’s lower lip and settles at the corner of his mouth, gently smoothing away the frown there. “No one ever doubted that you can do it yourself, baby boy. We just don’t want you to feel like you have to.”

Just like that, he’s a bomb defused, the red-and-blue wires snipped with deft hands, and Wade is sitting him back down on the couch, peppering his forehead and cheeks with kisses until his breathing rate returns to something approaching normal.

“May and I were talking,” Wade says, after his head stops spinning and his vision isn’t wavering at the edges anymore. “’Cause we know how you are, and we knew that you would probably try and take this whole thing on yourself.”

Which, to be completely fair, he did, so they were right to get together, he supposes. Wade flashes him a smile, tinged with relief at the edges, and Peter realizes he said that out loud. He ducks his head in embarrassment, since, uh, he just had a mega-meltdown and here his boyfriend is saying that he and his aunt saw this coming a week ago, but Wade takes it in stride, ruffling his hair once and then settling his hand on Peter’s.

“So we, uh, tried to come up with a solution that would help you see that you’re not alone in it. Jeez, Petey, that’s like cheesy moral of the story number one, I can’t believe you’re still having trouble digesting this one.” His tone is teasing, but Peter can feel his hand shaking slightly where it rests on top of his own.

He clears his throat. “So, um, what did you do? And, uh, sorry, by the way, for…blowing up there.” He can feel his face flushing hot with shame, but he forces himself to look up and meet Wade’s eyes anyway, barreling on before the other man has a chance to interrupt him.

“We both know I’ve been under a lot of stress recently, but…it’s not an excuse for me to lash out at you. You and May have your own relationship outside of your interactions with me, and it’s not fair for me to say that you are or aren’t allowed to hang out or make plans. Especially,” Peter continues, now smiling sheepishly, “when those plans involve looking out for me, together.”

There’s no response for a second as Wade just stops and gives him that look again, like he can see past every single lie Peter’s ever told in his life, and then he leans forward and sweeps his boyfriend into a crushing hug, something cool and metallic slipping out of his arms as he does.

Peter barely manages to catch his laptop before it hits the ground, but he sticks one arm out and swipes it just as one corner is about to make impact. (Spider-powers: 1, shattered screens: 0. Peter will die on this hill.) Triumphantly, he waves it around behind Wade’s back, pulling back out of the hug to settle it on his lap.

It’s still open to the webpage that Wade had pulled up earlier, and the man in question swipes a hand over it protectively, trying to keep him from seeing. Probably for a dramatic reveal, knowing him, but honestly, they’re kind of past that point now, so Peter slaps his hand out of the way and pulls it closer to read what it says.

It’s some kind of fundraising page. Not uncommon fare, especially in New York, where the cost of living is high and the cost of staying afloat, not just surviving, is even higher. He’s about to turn to Wade and raise an eyebrow, because really? All this fuss over a GoFundMe? Until he stops and takes the time to actually examine the site on display.

In loud orange font, right at the top of the page: “Keep Spidey Swinging!” Beneath that, a five-digit number that’s increasing, bit by bit, as he watches. Peter feels his head lightening. He reads on.

_Dear New York City,_

_As you may have heard, last Friday an explosive conflict erupted between an unidentified supremacist cell and local law enforcement. This incident left many of the city’s heroes severely injured, including one of its most dearly beloved: the one and only Spider-Man._

_A concerned citizen called an ambulance, and with their aid and the hardworking staff of New York’s hospitals, it seems that our arachnid friend has made a full recovery from his injuries._

_Unfortunately, as many of us are all too aware, this recovery has come at a price. Fees from the ambulance trip, surgery, and medication total to almost $25,000—a steep premium for our local web-slinger to manage all on his own._

_If you love Spider-Man—if he has saved you, or someone you know, or helped you to feel more at home in this city, then we encourage you to donate to help this local hero continue keeping the streets safer. It’s the least we can do for our friendly neighborhood superhero, protector, and friend._

_Love,_

_Friends of Spider-Man_

Wade’s already babbling on. He speaks a lot when he’s relaxed, just letting the thoughts flow freely from his head and out of his mouth; when he’s nervous, he could fill a room with his words in a couple of a seconds. Peter had to stop him from verbally biting Aunt May’s head off by sheer force of talk when he came over for dinner the first time.

Tonight’s no exception. “It was May’s idea, so you can thank her for that, I mean, really, all her genius, Petey, you can tell that she’s your aunt ‘cause the two of you are both just such smart cookies,” he’s saying, when Peter tunes back in.

The moment he looks up from the laptop screen, Wade’s jaw shuts with a near-audible clack, cutting himself off entirely. “D-did Domino help you write this?” Peter asks weakly.

Wade flounders for a minute, then positively beams. “Yep! I told her what I wanted to say and she made it sound all good. And Weasel handled the bank shit, so, you know, no ne’er-do-wells can track you down through the transactions!”

Wordlessly, Peter scrolls through the flood of messages. There are still some being posted even as he attempts to page through, so he only catches flickers of each comment.

_Inspiration to my son—saved my best friend last year—it’s not much but I hope it helps—keeping the city safer—be more careful out there!—stopped to pet my dog last week—the only genuinely kind super in NYC—made sure I got home safe when I was wasted—get well soon—treat yourself to something nice—don’t know the guy under the mask but hope he’s alright—_

Something wet touches his hands, and he looks down in shock to realize that he’s been crying for the past few seconds without noticing.

“Oh, baby boy, don’t cry,” Wade says, soft as he’s ever been, crawling forward to take Peter’s hands in his own, kissing the streaks of tears back up his cheeks until he’s pressing his lips gently to Peter’s eyelids before pulling back. “You understand what this means, right?”

His lungs betray him. It’s impossible to speak right now, so he just shakes his head.

“New York loves you too, Spidey.”

\--

“Wade?” Peter says, a while later, once his chest has stopped heaving and he can remember how to breathe again.

“Yeah, Petey?”

“Thank you,” he says, and he means it so fiercely that he doesn’t think Wade will ever understand. The force of it shakes him, and he finds himself sitting up, holding the other man’s hands tightly in his owns, trying to convey how much he’s feeling through touch and sight alone.

But of course, it’s Wade, so he takes one look at Peter and just…gets it.

A really nice thing about their relationship: Partnering up to fight crime with one another for a very long time means that their non-verbal communication skills were off the charts even before they started, uh, “bumping uglies”, as Wade would call it. Plenty of people have commented on it before—Tony, for one (much to Peter’s amusement), as well as Logan and Daredevil. It only got worse (better?) after they started dating and cohabitating.

It’s moments like this, when Peter starts to say something and realizes that there aren’t enough words in the world to communicate what he means but somehow, impossibly, Wade understands, that he really appreciates that about them. There’s something inexplicable in their relationship; maybe it’s shared trauma, or the mysterious parallels in their respective tragic backstories that’s brought them close in this way. Maybe it’s just love, and how strongly each of them feels for each other. Either way, he’s never been more grateful for their bond than in this moment, and he lets himself just bask in that feeling for a while, curled up on the couch in Wade’s arms.

“Petey?” Wade says, after a couple of minutes have passed. He pokes Peter’s forehead gently and completely unnecessarily. “You all good?”

He thinks about New York, and all it holds: Richard and Mary, and May and Ben, and Gwen and Johnny and MJ and Wade, plane crashes and armed robberies and clocktowers and human torches and talent scouting and human experimentation. Remembers explosions and the ensuing scars, reminders he’ll carry for the rest of his life of the price he’s paid to protect this city. Calls back memories of sunsets in Central Park, fireworks on Coney Island, rooftop hotdogs in Brooklyn and the sleek silhouette of Stark Industries cutting across the Manhattan skyline.

Delicately, Peter untangles himself from the mass of Wade and the couch. He stretches his arms up high above his head and then below until he’s almost touching his toes, then rises back up, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet.

“I will be,” he says, and he means it.

\--

He waits until Wade is out, a couple days later, to check the website again. There’s a section on the site titled “Updates”. Hands shaking, Peter clicks open to the tab and finds it empty aside from the original post Wade and Domino had worked to put up before.

They deserve an update.

Right before sunset, Peter finds a rooftop in one of his favorite spots downtown, right next to the transition zone between a residential area and a street full of shops. Settling on the concrete edge of the building, he takes a deep breath and fidgets with the edge of the mask at his neck, making sure that it’s on tight. His arms are still shaking slightly when he hits record on his phone, fumbling slightly with the screen to angle it better so that the sunset light illuminates his suit gold.

“So, uh, hey, guys, it’s me, your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man,” he says, voice shakier than usual. It’s strange, because for years the Spider-Man persona has lent him a confidence he could never have dreamt of wielding in his daily life, but all of that suave assertiveness seems to have drained away. Even the voice modification of the mask doesn’t do much to hide the issue. The guy sitting on the roof right now and speaking into the camera isn’t a superhero. It’s just twenty-two-year-old Peter Parker, fourth-year biochemistry student.

“I figured I owed all of you an update — and, more importantly, the biggest thanks I’ve ever given in my life.

“I’ve also seen some doubts that this page is, indeed, for the real Spider-Man, so, uh, hold on, I can –” He fumbles with the phone again and props it up on the edge of an empty crate, then steps back to face it. Just for the fun of it, he does a few acrobatic tricks, the kind of stunts he performs for parents with little kids and enthusiastic tourists on the regular, and then follows it up with some more serious maneuvers: a flip off the wall, and then a little swing around the roof, just to prove he can.

Sheepishly, he returns to the camera, rubbing the back of his neck as he does. “Just so you know that this is the one and only. And I’m all healed up now, thanks to all of your well wishes.”

He is, actually. Healed up now, that is, and way faster than usual this time, without all of the usual lingering soreness that tends to follow as his healing factor works overtime. Aunt May taught him the basics, being a nurse, and Wade has a fairly comprehensive knowledge of all things first responder, but being treated in an actual medical facility by doctors with fancy equipment and medications was apparently enough to make a difference. Apparently. (Wade’s stitches were almost as neat and even as the ones he got from the hospital, though, to his immense satisfaction.)

Right. Enough about Wade. Back to the extremely important video he’s currently filming.

“I just wanted to say, uh…thank you, for real. Not just for the money, but for, uh, everything,” he finishes lamely.

Peter inhales, and chooses his next words very carefully. “When I…became Spider-Man. At first. I wasn’t trying to protect anyone, or do any good, or make any place better. I mean, I’d like to think it’s because I was younger, and pretty, uh, silly, and I’ve grown since then for sure, but in the very beginning, it wasn’t about anyone else but me, and proving that I could do something that no one expected.

It took losing someone who was very important to me…um, several times, actually, for me to realize. That being able to do what I can do, and living in a world, and in a city, where other people can’t, means that it’s my responsibility to help where I can. And to do the right thing not because it means I get paid, or because it makes me famous, but just because it’s right.”

The sun is halfway behind the horizon now, streaking the sky with a colorful mess of clouds. It’s probably best to wrap up the video here.

Realizing that he’s been pacing for the past few minutes, Peter stops and then faces the camera directly. “So. Thanks for helping out a friend in a bad place, financially speaking. But more importantly, thank you for shaping me into the person that I am today, as cheesy as it sounds. And for, uh, always making New York home.”

He hits the “stop” button on his phone and uploads the video before he can think too much about it.

\--

Tony calls him a couple of days later, right after he’s transferred over the payment to the hospital from the account that Weasel set up for him. There’s really a lot more in there than he anticipated; the fundraising page had continued to gain traction even after the goal was reached, especially after he posted the update video. He’s been intentionally laying low as Spider-Man—speculation about his identity is now at an all-time high, which, he guesses, he should have seen coming, given, uh, everything about the situation—and the call catches him off-guard, lounging on that blessed couch and checking his school email for a response from one of his profs.

He picks up on the third ring, and tries not to let the confusion show through too strongly in his voice when he answers. “Mr. Stark?”

“I’m guessing that the fact that every news outlet around town has been having a field day for the past week means that you turned Wilson down,” Tony says. “Also, I’ve told you a million times not to call me that.” Straight to the point as always, he supposes.

Peter closes out of his Outlook tab. He’ll check again after dinner. “I considered it,” he says, which is the truth.

“But you didn’t take his offer,” Tony clarifies. “Which is the important part.” There’s a pause. “Looks like you’ve got the whole city paying your bills instead now, Pete.”

“I don’t know about the whole city—” Peter begins, but then he tabs over to the “Keep Spidey Swinging!” webpage, which he’s sort of had running in the background at all times for the past week, and squints down at the numbers on the page.

Oh. Those are higher than he thought.

“Have you thought about what you’re going to do with the rest of that, now that you’ve paid off the hospital?” Tony asks. Without waiting for an answer, he goes on: “’Cause I have, and I’ve got a couple of ideas. You could graduate debt-free in the spring. Save for grad school. Buy the place you’re renting right now with Wilson. Get your aunt—April, that’s her name, right? Get April something nice.”

Even though he knows the other man won’t be able to hear it over the phone, Peter rolls his eyes. “You know her name’s May, Mr. Stark. You’ve known me since I was seventeen. Don’t keep pretending like you don’t care about me.”

“Keep up that attitude, and we’ll see who’s pretending,” Tony shoots back, but his voice doesn’t quite manage to hide all the affection this time.

Peter’s chest glows warm, and he almost forgets to reply re: the use of the hefty funds still sitting in that bank account Weasel squirreled (ha!) away for him. “I, uh, haven’t thought about it, actually, but, um…I would feel kind of. Weird? Using that money for stuff like that? Even though it’s for me. Because it already served its original purpose, I guess? But I don’t know what else to do with it…” 

“I had the feeling that that would be the case. Because, you know, you’re stubborn, and you never know when to give in and do whatever is easiest for you.”

“That does sound like me,” Peter agrees, stifling a laugh when Mr. Stark audibly groans on the line.

“You’re lucky you’re so smart, or else I’d never hire anyone as stupid as you,” Tony says, and sighs deeply. “Anyway, since I know you, I figured this was the most likely outcome, can’t use the money that the loving citizens of New York specifically gave to you out of the goodness of their hearts because it would be selfish and wrong, blah, blah blah. So I set up a little fund in advance that I thought you’d like, so Wilson doesn’t end up spending all that money on gourmet Mexican or something equally as painful to hear about.”

“Wade wouldn’t,” he protests, but they both know Tony’s joking. “What—what kind of fund?”

The sound of papers shuffling and poster uncurling echoes across the line. “The Everyday Hero Scholarship Fund,” Tony says. “I didn’t name it myself; Pepper suggested it and God knows she’s so much better at this kind of thing. You could set it up to go out to one kid in the New York area every year, or to follow one through college, or split it up among a couple, whatever. We can hammer out the details later, but that’s the gist of it.”

“Wow,” Peter says. And then, “ _Wow_.” Because of _course_ Tony would know, that this is the kind of thing Peter would want to use the rest of the money for. To lift up other kids in New York through education, to reward people for intrinsic acts of kindness.

He really has to get some new friends who don’t know him so well. Peter makes a note to bug Johnny about it, and then he starts sniffling.

Tony sounds completely taken aback. “Oh, God, kid, you don’t have to cry if you don’t like it, it’s just an idea and we can take it back if you hate it, just say the word.”

“No, no, I don’t hate it, it’s just—” Peter sniffles again, and then laughs wetly once. “It’s perfect, Mr. St—Tony. Thank you, so much. For thinking of it and setting it up and everything.”

“Don’t mention it,” he says gruffly. “No, really. Don’t. I can barely handle you snotting at me over the phone. I can’t imagine how awkward it would be in person.”

There’s a pause while Peter finishes getting out the last of the snifflies. He hears a door close quietly in the distance, and then feather-light footsteps treading into the living room; Wade must be home.

“I’m glad you like it,” Tony says finally. “I’ll—I’ll see you on Monday in the lab.” He hangs up before Peter can even say a “goodbye” back. It’s fine. He’s probably just hit his daily quota of emotional competence, and he’ll be back to normal tomorrow.

Peter puts his phone down on the table and shuts his laptop, still open to the fundraising page. Wade’s already moved onto the next room over, presumably having heard Peter on the phone with Mr. Stark, and is contentedly humming the tune to Hips Don’t Lie. His voice carries into the living room, along with the sound of the fridge door opening and closing and the clinking of pots and pans. Peter’s still on the couch in the living room, but he doesn’t need to be in the kitchen to picture the scene perfectly:

Wade, with that stupid “I Turn Grills On” apron tied neatly at the waist, sharpening his knives as he sings Shakira to himself. Water already boiling on the stove while something sweet-smelling from May’s armada of baked goods slowly reheats in the oven; scattered across the fridge, polaroids from the camera Johnny had gotten him as a birthday gift last year, which he’d publicly rejected for being too stupid and hipster-y but privately had enjoyed using until the ridiculously expensive film had run out. Pictures of Johnny making stupid faces, May with her neighbors’ cat, artsy shots of MJ in cafes across the city, and photos of Wade, so many photos of Wade.

There aren’t any pictures of Peter, he realizes.

He lopes over into the kitchen, wraps his arms around his boyfriend’s neck, and inhales the scents of gunpowder and peach cobbler. “Let’s go take some new pictures for the fridge tomorrow.”

After turning the heat down on the burner, Wade swings around, easily dipping Peter low and then bringing him back up into a soft, sweet kiss. When they pull back, he grins. “Any special occasion, or are we just adding glamor shots to the collection?”

Peter ponders the question for a moment, then shrugs. “None in particular. Just, you know, celebrating. Everything.”

“Good answer, Petey-pie,” Wade says, and then pulls him in for another kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, thanks for reading! comments are dearly appreciated :D


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